PR 

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Class PR^OST 
DOBELL COLLECTION 






V 



3* n Jt^7 CcA^u ^^ 



OCCASIONAL VERSES: 

> 

TO WHICH ARE ADDED, 

EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS, 
fyc. fyc. 



SOPHIA BAILLIE 



LONDON: 

PRINTED, NOT PUBLISHED 

1846. 






205449 
'13 



Few people, beyond the circle of their own 
family or near relations, had more attached friends 
than Mrs. Baillie. Her generous and affec- 
tionate nature was peculiarly fitted to attract them, 
In her family relations it was most amiably mani- 
fested: sisters-in-law became, with her, as true 
sisters ; the son-in-law as a son ; the daughter-in- 
law (that difficult band which does not always knit 
to perfection), as a dear, affectionate daughter. 
And her enlarged heart was not limited to family 
ties : the friends of her parents were her friends to 
the last, and sate as cordially by her side as those 
of her own age and selection; and, when any 
opportunity offered to do them a service or a 
kindness, how gladly did she make every exertion 
to effect it! It was natural, then, that she should 
be beloved, as well as esteemed ; and in those who 
knew that to such engaging virtues she added a 
strong, clear understanding, and a very pleasing 



talent for Poetry, it could not but excite a desire 
to possess copies of her verses. To have prepared 
manuscript copies for them all, would have been 
a difficult and laborious task ; and therefore it has 
been thought best to have some printed, to be 
put into the hands of her friends as a memorial of 
her. There is this advantage, too, in having them 
printed, that there will be no difficulty in reading 
them, which so often injures the effect of a first 
perusal, particularly when the subject of a Poem 
is one of tenderness and affection, rather than de- 
scription and fancy. 

As it is not intended to mix biography with 
this notice, which would have suited ill with her 
modest and withdrawing character, I shall only 
add, that she was the daughter of Thomas 
Denman, m.d., and the wife of Matthew 
Bailtie, m.d., whom she survived many years. 
All the material events or circumstances of her 
life are known to the friends for whom this little 
book is intended. 



A much larger collection of her verses might 



have been produced, each possessing merit taken 
by itself; but a writer of no ambition, composing 
only occasionally, as tenderness, natural affection, 
and yearly occurrences or family changes, gave 
occasion, could not well avoid repetition of 
thoughts, and similarity would have weakened 
the impression they might otherwise have made. 
All of them show her beautiful, refined mind, 
and her elegant, correct taste; but, for the reasons 
above mentioned, those which are excluded must 
remain a secret treasure to her children and the 
friends who loved her too well, to be indifferent, 
under any circumstances, to any thing that came 
from her pen. 

To the verses are added some extracts from her 
letters, chiefly addressed to her daughter, Mrs. 
Milligan,* They are the more interesting, be- 
cause their dates belong to the latter part of her 
days, and in some degree trace the progress of her 
illness; and the occasional information mingled 

* Her son and his wife were almost continually with her, so 
that no letters of general interest passed between her and them 
during the latter period of her existence. 

B 2 



with them, from the observations of one so dearly 
interested, is peculiarly valuable, as leading us on 
by degrees to the close of her benevolent and 
useful life. 

Her remains are laid in a vault close to the wall 
of Duntsbourn Church, in Gloucestershire, by the 
side of her husband, whom she so loved and 
honoured. The spot was once noted for an Elm 
of extraordinary growth, which was not long ago 
torn up by the roots in a tempest; and beneath 
the bank, sloping down from the churchyard wall, 
a large stone basin, placed there by some former 
lord of the manor, is always overflowing from a 
pure spring bubbling up through a small aperture 
in the ground, and considered by the neighbouring 
villagers as one of the mouths of the river Thames. 
Let not the reader smile at the mention of things 
like these. They give a resting place to the 
imagination, when it is occupied with the remem- 
brance of a departed friend. 



OCCASIONAL VERSES. 



A SACRED SONG. 



Depart, ye gloomy thoughts, depart, 
Nor cloud my sense, nor chill my heart ; 
Give place to hope, to peace, to love, — 
To hope that looks to joys above. 

Resting on Him who ne'er can fail, 
O ! why our transient ills bewail ? 
Why shed the tear, and heave the sigh, 
When everlasting bliss is nigh ? 

And even here is mercy found, 
And even here does good abound; 
O ! raise even here the cheerful voice, 
And, with a thankful heart, rejoice. 

Rejoice, ye weak, ye faint, ye sad, 
Ye mourners, let your hearts be glad ; 
Let doubts, dismay, and sorrow cease, 
For home is near, where all is peace. 

Eastridge, October, 1835. 



EVENING. 



Another day is past and gone for ever; 

Where are the good deeds that its light have seen ? 
"Where the ennobling thought, the high endeavour? — 

Vanish' d, alas, as they had never been ! 

Bright shone the morn, and brightly hope was smiling, 

And useful, active feelings with it rose ; 
But, oh, how changed the scene at day's declining ; 

And what remains of all at evening's close? 

How many precious moments have been squandered ! 

How weak indulgence o'er the soul has crept ! 
How from the best designs the thoughts have wander'd! 

How have the best intentions idly slept ! 

And will there be no cause to grieve to-morrow? 

Is this our only day of time mispent ? 
Will future failures leave no trace of sorrow ? 

Has former weakness nothing to lament ? 

Beware, beware, for day succeeds to day, 
And soon the span of life will pass away ! 



A SONG, 

Written, at the request of the Author, for the Tragedy of 
ETHWALD. 



Once upon my cheek 

He said the roses grew, 
But now they're wash'd away 

With the cold evening dew. 

For I wander through the night, 

When all but me take rest ; 
And the moon's soft beams fall piteously 

Upon my troubled breast. 



10 

TO 

SOPHIA JOANNA BAILLIE. 



Beautiful Baby, where art thou? 
What is thy little pastime now ; 
Who, at this moment, is caressing 
The fondly-loved, the first-born blessing ? 

Is it Papa, with vig'rous dancing, 
Thine eyes with timid pleasure glancing ; 
While added bloom adorns thy cheek, 
And seems of "fearful joy" to speak ? 
Ah, soon with pain is pleasure bought, 
And early is the lesson taught ! 

Or, seated on thy Mother's knee, 
Dost thou some new discovery see ? 
Some sight thou'st never seen before, 
Some object glittering on the floor ; 
Some little scrap of gaudy hue, 
Some toy just placed within thy view ; 
Or do sweet sounds attract thine ear, 
Some words of fondness whisper' d near; 
Some pretty song of ancient story, 
Some tale of pussy, and her glory ? — 
And thou the while display' st thy store 
Of knowledge, and of learned lore. 



11 



Or does some latent power within 
Its influence now first begin, 
Excite thee with a glad surprise, 
And animate thy soft blue eyes ; 
Urge thee to efforts strange and new, 
And bring some fresh exploit to view? — 
Gifts from on high bestowed on thee, 
Thon heir of immortality ! — 

O ye, to whom the task is given 
To guide the little feet to heaven ; 
Check the first step that goes astray, 
And early teach them virtue's way ! 
Rugged may sometimes seem the road 
Which leads to her divine abode ; 
And sometimes clouds may intervene, 
And darken the surrounding scene ; 
And for a moment hope may fail, 
x\nd terrors may the soul assail : 
Fear not ! — the haven keep in view, 
And love divine will help us through! 
Help us when most we see to fear, 
When most we think that danger's near; 
Help us when most we seem alone, 
Help us with power beyond our own ! 



12 



ON THE DEATH OF 

JUSTINA MILLIGAN 



To Thee the soaring spirit flies, 
To Thee, O God, our feelings rise ; 
And we, who linger here below, 
Let us our meek submission show ! 

Beloved mourners, who are left, 
O sorrow not, as those bereft ! 
Think that for her no griefs remain, — 
Think she has left her couch of pain ! 

Think of her in eternal bliss, 
Her change from such a world as this ! 
Think of her from her earliest youth, — 
Her loveliness, her worth, and truth. 

Zealous, while health and strength were given, 
To use them as the g^fts of heaven ; 
She early taught her powerful mind 
Its means of usefulness to find. 



13 



Ready to sympathise with woe, 
Ready her bounty to bestow ; 
Loving and loved ! — the young, the old, 
The rich, the poor, her praises told. 

By sore disease at length assailed, 

Her faith, her patience never failed ; 

For every pang she comfort found, 

And blessed the hand that gave the wound. 

And when the last sad scene drew near, 
Her perfeet love had cast out fear ; 
Her dying looks to heaven she raised, 
And her last words her Maker praised ! 

Her painful pilgrimage is o'er, 
Her form is seen on earth no more ; 
But she has left a spotless name, — 
A lovely, gentle, modest fame ! 

Long on that name our thoughts shall dwell, 
Long of her virtues love to tell ; 
Long shall affection fondly trace 
The winning charms of that dear face. 

Those looks of love even now can bless, — - 
They seem to soothe our deep distress ; 
Her tender accents still we hear 
Bidding us check the swelling tear ! 



14 



They tell us where to seek relief, 
They tell us how to soothe our grief; 
That soon our trial will be o'er, 
That we shall meet to part no more ! 

Dear friends ! let us, let us prepare, 
Let us her hopes, her feelings share ; 
Strive our remaining race to run, 
And faint not till our task be done. 

Thus, while her footsteps we pursue, 
And her example keep in view, 
Humbly our treasure we resign, 
And bend our will, O God, to thine ! 



[A short time before her death, when the dear sufferer 
had been more at ease, and in a more comfortable state 
than usual, she said to her sister, who was taking leave of 
her for the night, "Now, dear Mary, think of me as I 
have been this evening, not as when you see me in pain 
and suffering."] 



15 



LINES, WRITTEN IN THE AUTUMN OF 1818. 



Summer still lingers, though its glories fade, 
Still soft and fragrant are the gales that hlow ; 

The yellow foliage now adorns the glade, 
And paler skies succeed the summer's glow. 

The drooping flowers fade, and all around 
Their scatter' d blossoms wither and decay; 

But still bright verdure decorates the ground, 
And the sun sheds a soft and silver ray. 

So gently pass we on to wintry days, 

Through all the changes that the scene deform ; 
And still, O still, the Being let us praise 

Who sent the sunshine, and who sends the storm ! 

And so, when dreams of happiness are fled, 

Vanish' d like summer suns, and nature's bloom, 

O'er the sad heart some ling' ring joys are shed, 
To cheer the wav that leads us to the tomb. 



16 



TO HER GRANDSON, 

MATTHEW J. BAILLIE. 



The year that gave thee birth, dear boy, has ended, 
Happy thy short career on earth has been ; 

By fondest love thine infant couch attended,— 
Thine infant loveliness with rapture seen. 

Bright be the day which follows such a morning, 
Fair scenes thy future lot of life unfold, 

And virtue's charms thine earliest youth adorning, 
Glow in thine heart, when all beside grows cold ! 

O live, dear boy ! live to be blest, and blessing, 
Live to acquire a fair and honest fame ; 

Each added year some added grace possessing, — 
Live to do honour to an honour' d name. 



17 



A GENTLE REMONSTRANCE. 



Say riot that Age is cold, 

O say not so ! 

That heartless are the old, 

And greedy of their gold, 

And deaf to woe. 

Say not it is unkind, 

O say not so ! 
To love and beauty blind, 
Seeking defects to find, 

And faults to know. 

Say not it is severe, 

O say not so ! 
For oft I've seen the tear 
On aged cheeks appear, 

With locks of snow. 



18 



Then let not Youth conceive 
That age is slow to grieve, 

And say not so ! 
But let the young believe 
The trembling hands that give, 

Love to bestow. 

And say not hearts grow cold, 
Because the frame is old, 

O say not so ! 
Believe what I have told, 
As gentle creatures should, 

For well I know. 



19 



ON VISITING 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 

December \lth, 1827. 



Here will I come, when torn with torturing care, 
Here will I come, and soothe my soul with prayer ; 
Here think of him so loved and so revered, 
For whom such friends this sacred tribute reared ; 
And in the solemn scene, midst all its woes, 
Still seems this aching heart to find repose. 

Yet while I lingering stand, to view that face, 
And strive in vain its former looks to trace, 
And try, with weeping eyes, to read that name, 
The awful silence seems to chill my frame : 
Trembling I stand, cold marble only near,— 
Myself the only living creature here. 

He who was wont each sorrow to remove, 
To soothe that sorrow with the tenderest love, 
No longer now this sinking soul can cheer, 
No longer kindly wipe the falling tear. 



20 



With clouds, and storms, and darkness overcast, 
Must the sad remnant of my days be past ; 
My sun now set, my occupation gone, 
And I thus left to find my way alone ! 
But oh ! because such blessings once were mine, 
Though now for ever lost, should I repine ? 
No ; thus bereaved, still let me meekly bow, 
And take the cup provided for me now : 
With humble faith a heavenly Father trust, 
Knowing Him merciful, as well as just. 

And oh, be thou, so long my guide and friend, 
My guardian angel now, till life shall end ! 
Oh ! teach me still to think as thou hast thought, 
To find the path which once with thee I sought ; 
And lead, oh lead me to those realms of light, 
Where thy lov'd form again may bless my sight ; 
Where toils, and cares, and vain contentions cease, - 
Where the most heavy-laden rest in peace. 



21 



ON THE 

DEATH OF HER MOTHER. 



Sadly and slowly pass these days of sorrow, 
And hopes no longer wait us on the morrow ; 
For she is gone, — the Parent so rever'd, — 
Blessing and blessed, wherever she appear' d ! 
Belov'd and loving to the last of life, 
And never sinking in its sorest strife ; 
For pious trust and holy hope prevailed, 
And, in her darkest moments, never failed. 

Then oh ! with what a grateful heart her praise 
Was giv'n to Him who bless'd her length of days; 
Who shed bright radiance o'er her setting sun, 
And left her nought to do, or wish undone : 
The faithful servant to the end was blest, 
And gently sank to everlasting rest ! 

Afar and near her virtuous fame has spread, 
And many a tear shall o'er her grave be shed ; 
Tears of the friends who loved that form to see, 
And found it pleasure by her side to be : 
Yes, young and old, e'en childhood, lov'd to trace 
The welcome smile that mantled o'er her face : 



22 



The truth, the frankness, the confiding charm, 
That e'en reserve and coldness could disarm, 
Diffused a cordial glow on all around, 
And peace and happiness bestowed, and found. 

Tears of the poor ! — and well those tears may flow, 
Well may they weep o'er such a friend laid low ! 
Where shall they find a hand so prompt to give, 
A heart so warm, so ready to relieve ; 
Efforts so zealous, they could scarcely fail, 
So kind a list'ner to their piteous tale ? 
Oh ! many a feeble hand and trembling frame 
Shall love thee still, and bless thine honour' d name ! 
The young, to whom, through thee, the lore was giv'n, 
Shall tread thy path, and follow thee to heav'n. 

Tears of thy children fondly meeting here, 
Thy children's children gathering round thy bier, 
Will long lament the loss they now deplore, 
Long think of accents they can hear no more ; 
Thine honour' d memory cherish to the last, 
And dwell with filial love upon the past : 
But taught by thee, with thy example left, 
They sorrow not as those of hope bereft ; 
Cling to thee closely, though no longer seen, 
And try to be themselves what thou hast been ! 



23 



ON THE 

DEATH OF HELEN DUFF. 



Written from a bed of Sickness, March 17th, 1844. 



She's gone, she's gone ! — her race of duty done, 
Gently she sinks, ere life's full course be run ; 
Gone, while yet beauty lingered, ere the grace 
Was torn by age from that fair, fading face. 

Yes, she is gone, but I have loved her well, 
And love of all her blameless life to tell : 
Bereaved in bloom of youth, with all its charms, 
Her infant daughters fill'd her widow' d arms ; 
For them she wept, — she watch' d, — she pray'd,- 

she strove ; 
For them she daily sought her Maker's love ; 
That love was given, and early taught to pray, 
Their Maker's blessing rested on each day ; 
Their infant voices learnt to praise His name, 
And peace and comfort bless' d her virtuous aim. 



24 



The blossoms flourish' d round the parent stem ; 
Fair Nature's charms were gifts bestowed on them ; 
And soon a wife, a mother each she sees, 
And children's children cluster round her knees. 

Surviving daughters, weep not, but prepare, 
Think of your sainted Mother's dying prayer! 
Think with what holy hope her pains she bore, — 
Think of her now, when all those pains are o'er. 



25 



LINES WRITTEN ON A NEAR PROSPECT 
OF DEATH. 



Now soon, now very soon 

The time will come, 
When, resting by thy side, 

I, too, shall be at home. 

How often, oh, how often 
I've look'd upon thy face, 

And, when thou hast been absent, 
How long'd for thy embrace ! 

But never more those looks 

Shall I again behold, 
And, oh, thy words of tenderness 

Shall ne'er again be told ! 

And who so well will love me, 
Who for my sorrows feel, 

As he, the long departed, 
Who used my woes to heal ? 



26 

But soon, but very soon, 
The time will come, 

When, resting by his side, 
I, too, shall be at home. 



TO HER GRAND-DAUGHTER, 

SOPHIA MILLIGAN. 



Dear Child ! in darkest days, and stormy skies, 
Still may'st thou find some scatter' d flowers near 

And they are found where holy hopes arise, 
E'en while the mourner wipes the falling tear. 

August 3rd, 1826. 



EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS, 

fyc. fyc. 



EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 



From Mrs. Baillie to E. M. Milligan, 
December 2,\st, 1842. 

My dear Elizabeth, 
I received your kind letter before leaving 
home this morning, and employ the last moments 
of the departing year in writing to thank you for 
it. They are always to me moments of serious and 
solemn reflections, and always were so, even in 
gayer times ; but we have great reason to be thank- 
ful for the enjoyments the last year has afforded, 
and for the state of peace and comfort in which it 
leaves us. May that which is to come, leave you, 
my dear, dear child, with undiminished blessings ! 
It will leave you at least with humble resignation 



30 

and confiding faith in His mercy who best knows 
what is good for the creatures he has formed ; and 
with this hope, of what should even the fondest 
mother be afraid ? 



To the same, February 2\st, 1844. 

My dearest Elizabeth, 
I cannot tell you the delight with which I re- 
ceived your little letter of this morning, nor the 
anxiety I had felt till its arrival; but now I shall 
endeavour to dismiss all anxiety about you, my dear, 
dear child ! The only thing among you that does 
not appear just what it should be, is poor Mary's 
troublesome cough. Can her friend, Mr. Joberns, 
think of nothing to do her good? Of myself, I 
have very satisfactory accounts to give. The pain 
is very much abated, and seems to be gradually di- 
minishing. Indeed, it is now such as to give me 
very little trouble, but I suppose it will still be some 
little time before it is entirely removed. My dear 
William, and his dear wife, have been as kind 



31 

and affectionate as possible. They have now left 
me, and I am sure you will consider their depar- 
ture as a certain proof that all is going on well. 

Note, added by Mrs. Milligan. — This indispo- 
sition hung about my mother, and increased towards 
the middle of March, when she received a chill, and 
was seized with an acute and alarming illness, that 
was said to be influenza. This soon took a favour- 
able turn, and she seemed to rally better than we 
could have expected. My brother and Henrietta 
were with her at this time. 



To the same, March 29th, 1844. 

Again, here are a few lines for you, dearest 
Elizabeth, though really, after the accounts you 
have already received of me from dear surrounding 
friends, my own report of myself is hardly neces- 
sary. Thanks be to Him who is mighty to save, I 
am indeed proceeding most satisfactorily, and faster 



32 

than I believe, all circumstances considered, could 
well be expected ; and among my first thoughts, are 
you and your visit, my dear child ; and if all goes 
on well, I think I may now venture to say that I 
hope you will all get ready to come to me as soon 
after Easter Sunday as you possibly can ; and that 
you may be under no fear of being too much for me, 
I will tell you what arrangements I intend to make. 
You will find this house ready to receive you, and all 
the servants in it at your command; and I have 
only to request that you will manage, order, and 
direct as you think proper, leaving me only to be 
a fine lady among you. 



To the same, April 1th, 1844. 

Sunday Evening. 
I must write one little line more, dearest Eliz- 
abeth, just to say how happy I shall be to see you 
all on Thursday. ***** 
Should I but have the happiness of finding you 
well, my dear, dear child, it will do me more good 



33 

than all the cordials in all the chemists' shops in 
London. May it please God that I have this great 
comfort ! 

Note from Mrs. Milligan, April 11. — We went to 
London, and found my mother apparently free from 
all remains of her attack, except weakness, and re- 
gaining her strength as well as we could expect. 
We remained with her six weeks, and then left 
Sophy, whose return to us was accidentally delayed 
longer than was at first intended. * * 

We sent her some little remembrances, July 9th, 
and the next day she wrote the following letter, 
alluding to these and to our wedding-day : — 

Cavendish Square, July 10, 1844. 
My dearest Elizabeth, 
In the first place, I must thank you, and beg that 
you will be so good as to thank dear Sophy also, for 
the kind remembrances I found upon the breakfast 
table yesterday. A birth-day in old age must al- 
ways be a solemn season, and now particularly so 



34 

to me, under the present circumstances ! I have in- 
deed much cause for thankfulness, and, above all else 
that the world can bestow, for the precious gift of 
such amiable, affectionate, attentive children. May 
you all have your reward, my dear, dear child ! 
I need not tell you how particularly your husband 
and yourself will be present to my mind to-morrow, 
and how truly my most affectionate wishes will at- 
tend you both. * * * 

Note from Mrs. M. — Soon after this she came 
to us, when I was much disappointed at finding that 
she was nearly as weak as when we parted. She 
seemed free from illness, but there is no doubt that 
the insidious progress of the complaint in her lungs 
was undermining her strength. She was able to 
walk very little, but she sat in our garden. She 
occupied herself as usual, and there was the same 
affection and clearness of mind, the lively sympathy 
which identified her with the joy and sorrow of 
others, and the interest in the pursuits of those 
around her, which she assisted as well as en- 



35 

couraged. She gained little power while she re- 
mained with us, and returned to London in 
September, with my brother and Henrietta, who 
had previously joined us. This year the frost set in 
early, and with severity, and in London there were 
thick fogs. She was enjoined to confine herself to 
the house, and be careful as to the temperature 
of her rooms ; but notwithstanding these precautions, 
the long and trying winter of 1844-5, made a 
serious impression on her health. She had no 
acute illness, but was constantly on the verge of 
it, and the complaint in her lungs made evident 
progress. * * * * 

Mrs. Milligan afterwards, in continuation says, 
March 22nd, — We went to London, and found my 
mother still confined to her room, and showing 
traces of illness, both in her appearance and by 
a want of freedom in breathing. * * * 
We remained with her three months, during which 
time she varied, but upon the whole lost ground, 
and the complaint made progress. * * 

d 2 



36 

Under these circumstances, and with a complete 
realization of the precariousness of her state, her 
mind was kept in perfect peace; and her feeling 
of God's love, and her pleasure in such passages of 
Scripture as dwell on it, never failed in all her 
sufferings. The powers of her mind remained in 
full vigour, but from the pressure of illness she was 
not able to bear any continued occupation. She 
sometimes wrote, and frequently did worsted work, 
striving to occupy herself as much as she could, and 
taking great pleasure in having her work made up in 
the prettiest manner for her friends. She was not 
able to read much, but every morning my husband 
read to her the Psalms and Lessons of the day, 
which she followed with her Bible open before her. 
Even at this time she wished us to go into society, 
especially Sophy, for whose amusement she was 
always desirous to contrive and combine arrange- 
ments. When we returned home, even from a 
morning walk, she liked to hear our little story, and 
entered into all our pursuits with as much interest 
as ever. 



37 

The spring was very late and trying ; but, as soon 
as the weather allowed, we went to Richmond for 
country air. Her breathing almost immediately 
became better ; and on her return, twelve days after- 
wards, we hoped there was a little improvement in 
some other respects also. June the 21st, we left 
her; after which she was joined by William and 
Henrietta, and, July the 3rd, they went together 
to Hampstead. 



From Mrs. Baillie to E. M. Milligan, 
June 24, 1845. 

Here are a few lines for you, my dearest Eliz- 
abeth, — a very few I am afraid they will be, — but I 
am sure your kindness will make you not wish that 
they should be many, and that my dear Sophy will 
excuse my not writing to her at all. Of my love for 
her, she can never doubt. Of my love for you all, 
— your kind, good husband, I am sure, well deserves 
to be included, — a love, if possible, increased by 



38 

recent circumstances, — but you know I dare not 
trust myself with dwelling on this snbject ! no, 
not even in writing. The thoughts alone of all the 
kindness I so constantly receive, sometimes almost 
overwhelm me. But now to turn to better and 
brighter subjects. You may well believe that I am 
delighted to hear of your safe arrival, and of all the 
beauties of your pretty place ; it seems to have 
clothed itself in all its charms and loveliness for 
your reception; and, really, the knowing that it is 
not left "to waste its sweetness on the desert air," 
almost, if not indeed entirely, reconciles me to the 
loss of your society, particularly for Robert's sake, 
who was, I am well aware, making great sacrifices in 
absenting himself so long : they were not, however, 
thrown away. * * * 

Most affectionately yours, 

SOPHIA BAILLIE. 



39 



From Mrs. Baillie to Miss Milligan. 

My dear, dear Mary, 
You bid me not write to you, and you may well 
believe that my letters will be "few and far between;" 
but I must indulge myself in writing a few lines, 
with my own hand, to thank you for your last sweet 
and soothing letter to me, — so congenial to my own 
feelings, and with that most beautiful and favourite 
passage of my own from Scripture, — "It is I, be not 
afraid." In the midst of our several trials, He who 
has sent them does indeed remember mercy, as you 
and I, dear Mary, have of late more especially expe- 
rienced. Such friends, such comforts, such allevi- 
ations of every kind ! And still they are continued ; 
for what can be arranged more for my comfort and 
advantage, more combining every thing of good 
remaining to me in this life, than this plan of going 
to Hampstead? "We intend going on Thursday, and 
William, and Henrietta, and little Mattey, are with 
me at present. Indeed, I am almost overwhelmed 
with kindness, sometimes quite, but I dare not trust 



40 

myself upon this subject, and can venture to say 
nothing of my dear Elizabeth, and her most kind 
husband, and all they have done for me on this 
occasion. Give them all my kindest love; dear 
Sophy, you may be sure, not excepted in the love, 
neither the remembrance of the kindness. 

Believe me, dear Mary, 
Truly, tenderly, and affectionately yours, 

SOPHIA BAILLIE. 



From Mrs. Baillie to E. M. Milligan, 
July 1st, 1845. 

My dearest Elizabeth, 
We still continue our intention of removing to 
Hampstead on Thursday, but I shall leave other 
pens to give an account of our journey ; of all the 
adventures of our arrival, &c. I intend this letter 
to be all entirely about myself, thinking it right that 
you, my dear, dear child, should know my present 
state better than any body else can do, and that you 
and your kind husband ought as clearly as possible 



41 

to be made to understand it. And now, then, for 
the truth, the real truth, making however what 
allowance you may think proper for my own feelings 
and fancies. But after all it is not much I have to 
say. I am indeed very much the same as when you 
left me ; but if there is any change, I think it is 
for the better. I have never once had an attack 
of that fearful suffering which, I believe, often dis- 
tressed you nearly as much as myself, my own dear 
child, and not more than two or three times has 
there even been a threatening of it. The breathing 
is quite as good as when you left me ; the cough 
perhaps rather better. * * * 

Still, I must repeat it, I do not find any increase 
of strength ; but I do venture to hope something 
from Hampstead air, and feel a longing desire for 
the change. Now, dear child, this which has al- 
ready been written at several different times, must 
here be finished. * * * 

I ever am, most affectionately yours, 
SOPHIA BAILLIE. 



42 

The following letter is the last she ever wrote ; 
and her grand-daughter, Sophia Milligan, says her 
beautiful hand-writing was scarcely altered : — 

Hampstead, July 10^, 1845. 
Dear, dear Eastridge friends, so loving and be- 
loved, what shall I say to you all for the precious 
memorials of affection received from you yesterday? 
In times that are past, I might perhaps have en- 
deavoured to express my feelings ; now I cannot 
even attempt it. Hardly indeed dare I trust myself 
even to think of it, so much am I overwhelmed 
by the kindness of all around me ! But, God bless 
you for it, and the remembrance will of itself be 
a blessing to them as long as they live ! It is this 
hope that reconciles me to all the trouble I am 
giving ! May they all continue loving friends and 
dear companions to the end of my life, and think 
of me as one whose tender affection for them will 
continue to the last moment of existence ! 

SOPHIA BAILLIE. 



43 

[Those dear friends from Eastridge came to 
Hampstead, on receiving notice from Mrs. W. 
Baillie that she was worse ; and I extract from 
Mrs. Milligan's account of her state, the two last 
sentences: — "We remained around her bed, and, 
as far as could be discerned through failing bodily 
powers, her mind seemed clear and conscious to the 
last. Her laborious respiration gradually softened 
into breathing, like going to sleep ; not long after- 
wards there was a pause, after which, two long 
breaths were drawn at intervals, and then all was 
over." This was at half-past nine in the evening.] 



Extracts from a letter, dated September 14, 1833, 
will shew with what generous ardour she entered 
into the supposed success of a friend ; and that 
friend can feel no restraint of delicacy in repeating 
her words, since her vivid anticipations, regarding 
the Play in question, ended only in disappointment 
and mortification. It was partly translated into 
the Cingalese language, by a native of the country, 



44 

but never completed ; and how far, from the natural 
love of the inhabitants of Ceylon for dramatic exhi- 
bitions, it might have influenced or pleased them, 
was never put to the proof. The more unworthy we 
conceive it to be of success, the more truly does 
it testify the affectionate partiality she bore to 
her friends. 



From Mrs. Baillie to Mrs. Joanna Baillie. 

My dear Joanna, ^ de > September Uth. 

Though you have so lately heard from William, 
I cannot deny myself the pleasure of writing imme- 
diately to thank you for your kind letter, and for 
the interesting account it contained of the Cingalese 
and his translation. It was indeed highly gratifying 
to us all, young and old ; and our young lady is 
not the only one of the party who would like to 
see The Bride represented in Ceylon, with all the 
accompaniments of which you give so lively a de- 
scription. You have, however, many friends in 



45 

Ceylon, who will, I am sure, enjoy the scene to the 
very utmost; and some of them at least, I will 
venture to say, with more interest and pleasure than 
they would have witnessed any play in any theatre 
in Europe. The success of this Drama, my dear 
Joanna, and the good that may arise out of it to 
ages yet unborn, must afford you the highest gratifi- 
cation ; and, according to the best of my judgment, I 
do not in the least exaggerate in thus stating my 
impression of its probable effects. Circumstances 
of such high interest connected with your works, 
can hardly afford more pleasure to yourself than 
they do to me, my dear Joanna ; and it seems to me 
as if I almost shared them with him who always felt 
such warm and affectionate interest upon such occa- 
sions ! or rather, perhaps, as if I now felt them 
double, because he is no longer here to take the 
share that he was wont. But now, after ten long 
years, I dare not trust myself with dwelling on this 
subject; so good night, dearest Joanna, I will go to 
bed, and begin again to-morrow morning. 



46 

Sunday Morning. 
This day seems to be one of as much interest in 
this little place as it was at Brighton, every Church 
and Chapel in it seems to be filled all day long. 
I have been to-day to hear Sir Henry Thomson, 
the clergyman of Bembridge, and an extempore 
preacher. His sermon to-day was for the benefit of 
the Ryde School ; but though he is altogether in 
manner and appearance certainly an interesting per- 
son, I cannot say that he has at all increased my 
impressions in favour of extempore preaching. The 
great extempore preacher here is Mr. Sibthorpe, 
and he certainly is a person of great power and 
distinguished talents in the pulpit. His subject 
seems to me so well arranged; he is so perfectly 
fluent, and his language is both so elegant and sim- 
ple, that I can hardly conceive extempore preaching 
to be better, and yet, according to my feelings, the 
best that can be said of it is, that it is as good 
as if not extempore. * * 



47 



To the same, September 22, 1827. 

My dear Joanna, 
The mournful intelligence contained in your last 
letter,* was indeed received with the most sincere feel- 
ings of sorrow and regret ; and though you say truly 
that 'there was, perhaps, but little chance of our meet- 
ing again with the friend who has thus early been 
removed, it must always be a painful trial to lose 
one who was never remembered without affection, 
and many tender and endearing recollections of for- 
mer scenes and happier days.f Pray say every thing 
that is kind, both for Elizabeth and me, when you 
write to your afflicted friends, and assure them that 
we both feel very grateful for remembering us in 
the midst of their distress. Indeed, they do us but 



* The death of Helen Miller, daughter of the late distin- 
guished Professor of Law, and author of the " History of 
British Government," &c. 

f This Lady had accompanied Dr. Baillie and herself, on 
a tour in the Highlands some years before. 



48 

justice in believing that we should be most sincerely 
interested on this occasion; and, independently of 
all other circumstances, my dear Joanna, it is 
impossible I should ever cease to feel as if your 
people were my people, or that the happiness of 
those you love should not always be dear to me. 



[She liked to encourage young people in any 
literary occupation that might animate their do- 
mestic evening circle, and would occasionally write 
an anecdote from real life, to be inserted in their 
Book of Manuscripts. They chiefly turned on 
generous feelings, discovered among the middling 
or lower classes of Society. I produce the following 
extract from a letter to her grand-daughter.] 

" The following tale, of generous and noble con- 
duct in humble life, has always appeared to me one 
of peculiar interest, and I think well deserving of 



49 

a place in my dear Sophy's collection of real, well 
authenticated anecdotes : — 

"Two sisters, the daughters of a Scotch clergy- 
man, unmarried, and in such reduced circumstances 
as to be obliged to support themselves by their own 
exertions, had established themselves in London as 
mantua-makers, and, by great industry, had not only 
succeeded sufficiently to maintain themselves, but 
had also undertaken the entire charge of an orphan 
nephew. They loved him as their own child, and 
they struggled hard to procure him the advantages 
of a good education. The navy was chosen as his 
profession; and he had just obtained the rank of 
lieutenant, when, one fatal day, a sailor belonging to 
his ship was guilty of some neglect in the perform- 
ance of his duty, and afterwards defended himself 
in an insolent and offensive manner. The lieutenant 
was greatly provoked, — violent and irritating lan- 
guage was used on both sides, — and at length, in an 
ungovernable rage, the lieutenant stabbed the sailor 
to the heart. Death was the immediate consequence, 

E 



50 

and the unhappy man who had occasioned it was 
tried for his life, found guilty, condemned, and exe- 
cuted. His aunts, though almost overwhelmed with 
the violence of their feelings, exerted themselves in a 
most extraordinary manner, to procure, if possible, 
some mitigation of the sentence ; and it was sup- 
posed that their efforts might have been successful, 
had it not been proved that the knife with which 
the dreadful deed had been committed had been 
procured from some distant part of the ship. It 
was therefore considered, as in some degree, a de- 
liberate act, and it was thought necessary that the 
extreme sentence of the law should be enforced. 
The unhappy criminal was attended, to the very last 
moments of his life, by these devoted relatives, 
with the tenderest affection, and with the greatest 
firmness; but when all was over, they appeared 
almost to sink under their affliction. Soon, how- 
ever, they roused themselves, and returned with 
additional energy to their humble labours, thus 
finding for themselves a most beautiful and touching 
means of consolation. The poor man who had 



51 

fallen a victim to their unhappy nephew's violence 
of temper, had left a wife, and either three or four 
young children. These they took under their pro- 
tection, toiling night and day to assist in their 
support; and these noble efforts never ceased till 
the children were all decently educated, and placed 
by their means in situations which enabled them 
to support themselves in respectability and comfort. 

" These two sisters are still alive, — old and infirm, 
poor and unnoticed; their good deeds are known 
to few, but their reward is to come ; and we may 
venture to believe, that even in this life they cannot 
fail to be acquainted with that peace which the 
world can neither give nor take away." 



She was interested in garden improvements, and 
delighted with the sight of beautiful flowers, either 
in gathered nosegays, or growing on parterre or 
border. She wished her grand-child to cultivate 
and understand them well, and for this purpose to 
e 2 



52 

work in the garden with her own hands. Some of 
the friends who may read these pages, will recollect 
with what pleasure, when a nosegay was sent to her 
from the country, she arranged it in the flower-pots, 
cutting off the faded parts, and putting the fairest 
flowers together, to produce the best effect. It was 
a favourite occupation ; and some of the kind friends 
who frequently, from their gardens or green-houses, 
supplied her with means for this gratification, will 
think of it now with a mournful satisfaction. In a 
letter to her grand-daughter, she says, — 

" I thank you very much for your last letter, and 
in return (shall I say as a reward?) I take up my 
pen to send this early answer. It was just such a 
letter as I like, giving a particular account of all 
your little affairs ; and I am so glad to hear that you 
are beginning to take an interest in your garden ! 
In that, as in all other things, you will find the 
beginning is the difficulty; but I believe that, in 
order really to enjoy your flowers, you must work 
with your own hands, and make yourself thoroughly 



53 

acquainted with the habits and dispositions of all 
your little family. I shall expect to see your par- 
terre in great beauty, though perhaps not quite 
in such perfection as when you have had the care 
of it another year. Indeed, I am fancying to myself 
great improvements even in a place that was so 
pretty before ; for aunt Mary tells me that she never 
saw it so beautiful, and says much of the good 
effect produced in the landscape by the newly-erected 
gardener's cottage. There is also another thing 
I should much like to see, which is the summer- 
house covered with creeping plants. I am much 
obliged to Harmsworth,* for consulting my taste in 
planting the bed of heliotrope, and I hope it is gene- 
rally approved of. I dare say you brought away 
many valuable hints from Cotswold, and from aunt 
Justina's skill and judgment, which are so great in 
all things." * * * * 

* Mr. Milligan's Gardener. 



54 



Extract from a Letter to Mrs. Milligan, with an inclosed 
Contribution to the Family Book. 



My dear Elizabeth, 
I have just finished the inclosed, according to 
your desire, and it is a pleasure to me to have spent 
in your service the last moments of the departing 
year. I expect to hear the clock strike twelve every 
instant, and may it be the beginning of a happy 
year to you, my dearest child, and all belonging 
to you ! That it will have its mixture of suffering 
and sorrow, we must expect ; but to you, my child, 
I am sure that it will be one of innocence and 
virtue, and therefore it is, I venture firmly to hope, 
that it will also bring along with it peace and 
comfort. I have stated the anecdote of the Velvet 
Gown as well as I am able ; but those only who have 
tried, can, I think, imagine how difficult it is to 
relate the simplest fact when you are not accustomed 
to it, excepting when you write in the form of a 
letter, to which all persons are accustomed. This 



55 

is one reason among many that would make me 
think your present plan a good one ; and I rejoice 
to hear that you are all so much interested about it. 
I have often recommended such a plan to my young 
friends, but often in vain; and the misfortune is, 
that few persons determine upon beginning such 
a plan till so late in life, that they have few oppor- 
tunities remaining. You have been wiser. — I sup- 
pose you have already in your collection an account 
of the adventure which occurred to our good friend, 
Mr. Hughes, on his way from Hampstead j for 
indeed I think you will seldom find any incident so 
remarkable and interesting. The clock has struck, 
and my first thoughts in the year 1833, are with 
you, my dearest Elizabeth ! I hope you are yourself 
sleeping peacefully ; and may you arise in the morn- 
ing in health and comfort ! 

Your most affectionate Mother, 

SOPHIA BAILLIE. 



56 

The following is an extract from a letter received 
a few days since from her daughter, Mrs. Milligan. 
Speaking of her mother, she says, — 

"One part of her character I have been still 
more sensible of since I lost her, than before, and 
that is her sympathy. I do not mean that for the 
sorrows of others, which went to an extent that was 
too much for her own health and feelings, but her 
daily, cheerful sympathy. There is not a pursuit 
among us, an occurrence, a passing trifle, an amusing 
circumstance, but the feeling of this sympathy, and 
of her being the one to tell every thing to, and to 
whom such trivial matters, as no one else cared to 
hear, were always interesting, rise to my mind. — 
This cannot be conveyed by any extracts, and can 
only be appreciated by those who have experienced 
it, though there is hardly any thing so endearing." 



57 

[It was her habit, of later years, to write down her 
own thoughts and observations at night, when she 
had retired to her own room; for, being a bad sleeper, 
she was willing to shorten her time of being in bed, 
which gave her a better chance for sound rest when 
she did he down. The correctness of her judgment, 
tempered with Christian charity and tenderness of 
heart, prevailed, as one might naturally suppose, 
through all these nightly meditations ; a few ex- 
tracts from which will, perhaps, gratify the friendly 
reader.] 



ON THE INFLUENCE OF AGE 

UPON THE CHARACTER. 



It is often said, that with advancing age we usually 
become more suspicious, and more disposed to be 
severe in the judgments that we form of others. 
Now, I readily acknowledge that popular opinions 
are in general well founded, and even that old proverbs 
are very often just, but upon this subject my own 



58 

impressions are very different ; and as they have been 
repeatedly confirmed by others still older than my- 
self, and with infinitely more wisdom and experience, 
it may not be presumptuous to suppose that I am 
right. Perhaps it will be found neither useless nor 
uninteresting, to seek for an explanation of the 
causes which may reasonably account for the in- 
creasing of candour and of indulgent opinions with 
increasing age. 

Probably the first and most obvious reason for se- 
verity of judgment in young persons, and certainly the 
most favourable that can be alleged for such a dispo- 
sition, arises from the idea of perfection often formed 
in their imaginations, and from that high standard 
of morals which is indeed so often endeavoured 
to be impressed upon their mind, in the hope of 
thus influencing their own character and conduct. 
This high opinion of all that human nature may be, 
and ought to be, is not unlikely to render them severe 
in the opinions of individuals ; so that, ignorant of 
their own failings and infirmities, and of those difn- 



59 

culties in the performance of their duty, which even 
the best have too often to lament when trials come, 
they little know how to make allowance for the fail- 
ings and defects of others. Disappointments must of 
course ensue; and the first occurrence of this nature 
is always extremely painful to amiable and artless 
minds. The effect thus produced is very likely to 
drive them to the opposite extreme; and having once 
found some degree of imperfection in those whom 
they had highly estimated, they immediately decide, 
with all the confidence and impetuosity of youth, 
that no mixture of virtue can possibly remain. Too 
often are they inclined to " say in their haste, that 
all men are liars," and to believe them all "despe- 
rately wicked/' Alas, they little know how many 
degrees of good and evil may be found; how often 
the best of us have to struggle with defects and 
failings, and with too many propensities to do amiss; 
and still less are they aware how much good may 
often be discovered in the midst of many imperfec- 
tions. A more intimate acquaintance with their own 
hearts, will too soon teach them a humiliating lesson, 



60 

if they have but the candour to acknowledge it, even 
to themselves ; and well may those learn to judge 
mildly and gently of the defects of others, who can 
hardly pass a day without the consciousness of re- 
quiring pardon and forbearance for themselves. 

Another reason for the disappointed expectations 
of the young, may be found in their hasty, incon- 
siderate, and imprudent manner of placing confidence ; 
for those who deserve it most are seldom desirous of 
seeking it, while those who act from unworthy mo- 
tives, may too often flatter to betray. It is, however, 
so painful to feel that we have been mistaken, and 
even to ourselves to confess we have been wrong, 
particularly to the young and inexperienced, who are 
in general so sure of being right, that they are per- 
haps more willing to suppose none could have been 
discovered worthy of esteem and confidence, than 
to believe that they could have been so imprudent 
as to choose amiss where better might have been 
found. Thus, to reconcile them to themselves, it is 
immediately concluded that all men are false ; and 



61 

thus, to prove their own sagacity and penetration, 
and to make sure of never being again deceived 
by others, they often adopt unjust suspicions, and 
learn, by vain imaginings, to deceive themselves. 

It may be well here to remark, that the sincerest 
friends, and such as from their situation have the 
strongest claims to confidence, "are not always judi- 
cious in their manner of offering advice, nor do 
they perhaps always sufficiently endeavour to make 
themselves agreeable as companions. Satisfied with 
the consciousness of their own integrity, and disin- 
terested motives, and knowing themselves right, 
they are, perhaps, sometimes little disposed to use 
such means of enforcing their opinions and expostu- 
lations as prudence might suggest ; boldly urging 
them with sincerity and truth, with less deference 
to the opinions they oppose than the tenacious 
temper of the young, and their confidence in their 
own judgment, may be well disposed to bear ; 
indeed, less on some occasions than those opinions 
probably deserve. Trusting entirely to the native 



62 

beauty of Truth, they do not always consider the 
infinite importance of the garb she wears, and even 
sometimes lose the perfect command of their own 
temper, in the fervour of their endeavours to prove 
the importance of preserving it. 

However unwilling to believe the mortifying les- 
son, we must at last be taught that our own judg- 
ment is not infallible; we are at length forced to 
confess, to ourselves at least, that our opinions have 
sometimes been erroneous. This is a great point 
gained, for of course it is possible that those who 
have once been wrong may be again mistaken ; and 
thus, if there be any candour in the mind, or any 
power of profiting from past experience, we gradually 
learn to be less vehement and hasty in our decisions, 
and less confident in their infallibility. The pro- 
gress of time — that which does so much for all things 
and all men, and works so many wonders — must like- 
wise inevitably convince us, unless we have indeed 
a hardened heart of unbelief, that we have often 
censured the conduct of others, because we were 



63 

unacquainted with the circumstances and the motives 
which occasioned it, and which, when they have 
been at length disclosed, have proved such conduct 
not only to be excusable, but deserving of the 
highest admiration. 

A striking confirmation of this occurred to myself 
in early life. It has never been forgotten, and I 
hope the lesson has ever since been useful : — During 
a visit in the country, almost in my childhood, I be- 
came acquainted with three maiden sisters, who lived 
together. I thought that two of them were very good 
natured and agreeable; but the other always ap- 
peared to me gloomy, and somewhat discontented, 
less disposed than her sisters to enter into and 
promote the innocent gaieties and amusements of 
those around her. To my apprehension, she had 
then no appearance of bad health, and she made no 
complaints ; but some months afterwards I heard 
that she had died of a cancer in her breast. With 
this dreadful complaint, then, had she been afflicted, 
when I had presumed to censure her for not appear- 



64 

ing gay and cheerful ; and with this dreadful disease 
had she struggled to the last, with the greatest 
degree of fortitude and resignation, concealing her 
suffering, as long as it was possible to do so, from all 
but her medical attendant, that her sisters might 
be spared the distress which she knew her situation 
must occasion. How often did I afterwards re- 
proach myself for the opinion I had formed of such 
a character, and how often have these circumstances 
been recalled to memory, whenever I may since have 
found myself about to judge severely ! 

Gradually we become also but too well aware of 
the numerous mistakes and misapprehensions which 
occur, in repeating expressions that have been used, 
or opinions that have been stated; and, after having 
suffered from such mistakes ourselves, we should be 
indeed unreasonable, if we did not learn to make all 
allowances in this respect for others. What a totally 
different impression may be given, by the alteration 
or omission of a single word, or by failing in some- 
thing which followed or preceded, or by some slight 



65 

change in the manner only, or even in the look or 
tone of voice ! And if any persons will endeavour 
to recollect with precision any conversation they 
have listened to but a day, an hour, or even a 
single instant before, they will not be surprised 
at the mistakes which so frequently occur on such 
occasions, without supposing the least intention to 
deceive. "Who can venture to be certain that they 
can always recollect the exact words which they 
had even themselves made use of but a very short 
time before, or describe with perfect accuracy any 
circumstance that they themselves had witnessed ; 
and surely they cannot but learn to make allowance 
for those that are repeated to them. No doubt 
we may sometimes be deceived by putting always 
the most favourable construction that we reasonably 
can on the various events of life, and the conduct 
of those concerned in them ; but I do firmly believe, 
that we shall still oftener be deceived by acquiring 
a habit of judging harshly and severely, and by a 
disposition to form unfavourable opinions of doubt- 
ful cases. 

F 



66 

These various causes may perhaps be acknow- 
ledged likely, in some degree, to influence the dif- 
ferent opinions that we may form of others in youth 
and age; but I believe that the first great cause 
of that increasing indulgence, which I have here 
ventured to suppose, will be found in the faults 
and failings of our own hearts, which we have 
then learned with more justice to acknowledge ; in 
our recollections of those struggles of conflicting 
duties which we must all experience, and the diffi- 
culties we have sometimes found in the performance 
of them, even with our most earnest endeavour, 
and our best intentions ; in the forbearance we 
require so often from those who are weak and im- 
perfect, like ourselves ; and above all, in feeling with 
the deepest humility how much we daily and hourly 
need pity and forgiveness from that God of mercy 
who hath told us that, when we have compassion 
on our fellow servant, then, and then only, may we 
hope that He will have compassion upon us ! 



67 



REFLECTIONS ON TEMPER. 

EXTRACTS. 

I have here stated the influence produced by- 
temper in the medical profession, partly perhaps 
because from my own experience I know most of 
its effects ; but in all professions, public offices, 
places, and employments of every kind, I am con- 
vinced that, if the subject is considered, its vast 
importance will be acknowledged ; and those who 
are at all in the habit of observation, must recollect 
many instances of its interference with the success 
of life. Not that I mean in the slightest degree 
to recommend an undue or servile yielding of the 
judgment and opinion. I indeed am disposed to 
think, that a good-tempered person is probably more 
likely than a bad one to resist with firmness, when 
duty requires him to do so, because he will not 
resist without strong reason, and when it is of real 
importance that he should not yield. Besides, 
f2 



68 

being induced by violence of temper to say what 
his own calmer, deliberate, feelings may afterwards 
acknowledge to be wrong, the angry man is perhaps 
induced, in order to make amends for having given 
unjust cause of offence, to say or do more after- 
wards in extenuation, than would otherwise have 
been required. 

There is another fault of temper which I am 
disposed to mention here, because I think it is in 
general cherished as a virtue, while to me it appears 
a very great defect; I mean a proud and sullen 
determination to be entirely independent, so as to 
interfere with the kindly interest of social life, and 
greatly to encourage a haughty and stubborn dispo- 
sition. Such persons are generally well supplied 
themselves with the gifts of fortune, and pretend 
that they are very ready to bestow, but in fact they 
take from themselves in a great measure the power 
of bestowing; for who will be disposed to ask a 
favour of them, or, if they are obliged to receive it, 
not feel it as a burthen ? Besides, is it fair to 



reserve to ourselves all the pleasure of conferring 
kindness, and sullenly refuse to receive any in 
return ? Is it doing as we would be done by ? 
Is it not in fact making an ungenerous use of that 
abundance which may have been bestowed on us, 
and withheld from many of the most deserving ; 
from those who feel within their bosoms as strong 
a sense of real independence as the rich and great, 
who abuse the power of indulging it ? And, after 
all, who can be wholly independent ? In fact, the 
rich man as little as the poor; and perhaps, if we 
inquire minutely into circumstances, none less than 
the person who most frequently boasts of his inde- 
pendence. Every thing that is created must submit 
to the necessity of giving, and receiving, assistance 
and support. One Being only can stand alone, 
entire, all-sufficient, and exempt from this universal 
law, which He has ordained, — thus checking the 
pride of man, and shewing him his helplessness. 

The mutual intercourse of kind offices is strongly 
recommended by the celebrated Dr. Franklin. His 



70 

advice upon the subject seems to me stated in a 
manner so striking and impressive, that I give the 
passage in his own words : — 

" If five louis d'ors may be of present service to 
you, please to draw upon me for that sum, and your 
bill shall be paid at sight. Some time or other, 
when, you may have an opportunity of assisting with 
an equal sum a stranger who has equal need of it, 
do so ; by that means you will discharge any obli- 
gation you may suppose yourself under to me. 
Enjoin him to do the same on occasion. By 
pursuing such a practice, much good may be done 
with little money. Let kind offices go round. 
Mankind are all of a family." * 

I believe, in fact, that there may be as much real 
kindness in asking and receiving, as in bestowing 
a favour ; and I even think that the willingness to 



* Letter to the Rev. W. Nixon, English prisoner on 
parole at Boulogne. 



71 

do so, after any disagreement, is the strongest proof 
of cordial and complete forgiveness, and of a truly 
Christian frame of mind. The act of giving may 
be a gratification of proud feelings, and of our own 
superiority of power and influence ; but let us ask 
ourselves, under such circumstances, whether we 
are really willing to accept of kindness, to submit 
to be obliged ; and if we find this really to be the 
case, we may then venture to believe that our 
forgiveness is sincere, and that no lurking resent- 
ment is remaining. 

There is, however, a noble sense of independence, 
well deserving admiration, and indeed without which 
no character can be respectable. This cannot be 
too early or too strongly impressed upon the mind ; 
and it is only when it is indulged to an extreme 
degree that the disposition becomes reprehensible. 
It is indeed true, with respect to almost every feeling 
and inclination implanted in the mind of man, even 
those which appear most laudable and virtuous, that 
they may become wrong when carried to excess, and 



72 

lead to the most dangerous results; but in most 
cases this is so obviously true, that it is at once 
perceived, and therefore probably avoided. Some 
propensities grow upon us more insidiously, and 
even in their excess still wear the garb of virtue ; 
so that we perhaps continue to indulge them, de- 
ceiving our own hearts. But let us carefully be 
upon our guard, endeavouring strictly to preserve the 
most distinct, clear, and perfect barrier between vice 
and virtue; never, by any temptation or arguments 
of sophistry, allowing ourselves to believe that a 
single step may be taken on the wrong side without 
the greatest danger, but remembering, that the 
very slightest deviation from the right may lead 
to consequences which we should have supposed 
impossible. 



73 



DREAMING. 



It has frequently occurred to me, that there is 
a circumstance connected with the phenomena of 
dreaming, which has not in general been sufficiently 
considered by writers on the subject, but which is 
well deserving of attention, because I think it will at 
once account for, and explain, many of those appear- 
ances usually called supernatural. In describing 
such appearances, it is very common to hear it said, 
that the person seeing them could not be asleep 
at the time, because he distinctly perceived his own 
bed, his own chamber, his own furniture, around 
him, and was perfectly aware of his own relative 
position. Now this appears to me no proof at all 
of being awake, for assuredly it is as easy to suppose 
that we dream of our own bed, our own chamber, 
our own furniture, as of any other scene that we 
have ever witnessed ; perhaps only the more likely 



74 

to be represented in our sleep with peculiar dis- 
tinctness, from its being more perfectly and distinctly 
known, and therefore the more likely to be mistaken 
for reality. From my own experience, I am con- 
vinced that such dreams do not unfrequently occur ; 
and if this be granted, there can be no difficulty 
in adding to the scene any supernatural appearances 
you please, or any thing else that does not exist, 
which, if any other scene were present, would appear 
to be nothing extraordinary or difficult of expla- 
nation. That we have no perception of waking is, 
I think, no proof of not having been asleep ; for 
I believe it will be found that we have in general 
no consciousness of passing from the one state 
to the other, and are often only aware of it by the 
alteration which it may occasion in the appearances 
around us — the change from imaginary circumstances 
to those which actually exist. So much is this the 
case, that upon our first awaking, we sometimes 
hardly know whether our dreams may not have been 
reality; and if any great affliction has really hap- 
pened to us, how often do we endeavour to suppose 



75 

that we have been suffering only from a frightful 
dream ! 

It seems not improbable that similar circum- 
stances may occur, even in our usual waking hours 
in the day time, and seated in a chair ; and I there- 
fore must confess, that I think all supernatural 
appearances should be considered as very doubtful, 
and not entirely to be depended on, unless they are 
seen by more than one person at a time. That 
dreaming in fact is not, perhaps, as wonderful as 
any vision actually present to the senses, I pretend 
not to deny, nor if it were, could I for a moment 
presumptuously suppose that all things are not 
possible with Him, who, every day and every hour 
we live, doth indeed work such wonders as surpass 
man's understanding; but unless convincing proofs 
exist, that such appearances have been visible to 
more than one person at the same time, it does 
appear to me most probable that they did not 
really present themselves, but were only produced 
by the imagination of the individual who perceived 



76 

them; or rather, perhaps, it should be said, they 
arose from some peculiar state of body, producing 
effects upon the optic nerves in a manner so ably 
described by Dr. Abercrombie, in his able and 
interesting book upon this subject, and doubtless 
in many other valuable works, which my own 
ignorance prevents me from adducing. 

It ought likewise cautiously to be remembered, 
how often, how very often, apparently supernatural 
appearances may be explained by natural causes, 
and they sometimes are so in a surprising manner, 
long after all attempts at thus explaining them 
had been relinquished ; perhaps after the circum- 
stance itself had been forgotten, till brought to 
recollection by the explanation. I suppose that 
most persons will recollect some instance of this 
kind which may have happened to themselves ; 
but I will here endeavour to relate one which made 
a very strong impression upon my own mind many 
years ago, and perhaps led me to reflect particu- 
larly upon the subject. 



77 

As I was going up stairs one night to bed, 
with only the light arising from a candle carried 
in the hand, there appeared before me, at some 
little distance, a tall figure in white garments, 
which immediately fled from me with noiseless foot- 
steps, nor was there the least sound of any kind. 
I followed, expecting to find that some person was 
before me, but the figure had vanished, and no trace 
of it was to be found in any of the apartments 
where it could possibly have been. The only living 
creature near me was a child, which appeared, upon 
my looking at it in its bed, to be asleep ; but it hap- 
pened that I was immediately afterwards relating the 
circumstance in the adjoining room, when this child 
called out — " I was the figure on the stairs ! " And 
thus all was explained ; and greatly was I relieved 
to hear the explanation, for without it, I think that 
the feelings of alarm, of apprehension, something 
not to be described, which had been excited by this 
trifling circumstance, would not have been easily 
removed. The child had been frightened in its 
sleep, and had got up to seek assistance, but when 



78 

it saw me on the stairs, and knew that I was going 
to bed in the adjoining room, it felt afraid no longer; 
and not liking to confess its fears, hoped to return 
to bed without having been perceived. The long 
night-dress had given to the figure an appearance 
of unusual height; and had I not mentioned the 
circumstance so as to be overheard, or had the child 
previously gone to sleep, it is more than probable 
that it would never have been explained. 



79 

I have elsewhere remarked, that the language 
of the Poor is often very striking and impressive, 
and their peculiar expressions often very interesting 
and forcibly expressed. I was struck with an in- 
stance of this kind very lately, in visiting an old 
woman at Bembridge, in the Isle of Wight. She 
was mournfully lamenting her infirmities, particu- 
larly the melancholy life she led from lameness ; 
she ended with saying, "Ah, ma'am, Health is a 
merry fellow ! " 

Another old woman, very weak and feeble, both 
in mind and body, but strongly impressed with 
religious feelings, and able to read her Bible with 
delight, once said to me, that heaven was a large 
place, and there would be room enough there for 
us all ; and then she added, with a peculiar earnest- 
ness and eagerness of manner, " and then, ma'am, 
there we'll have no rent to pay." Could any 
thing express more strongly the difficulties which 
poor people find in paying for their humble 
dwellings ? 



80 

A Dialogue between a Chimney Sweeper and 
a Gentleman ; the latter possessing the best gifts of 
nature and of fortune, but disposed to take gloomy- 
views of life, and to form unfavourable opinions of 
human nature; the former humbly approaching 
him, to beg a Christmas-box. 

Gentleman. — Does not climbing chimneys hurt 
your knees ? 

Chimney Sweeper. — No, sir ; at first it did, and 
my elbows too, but now they are so used to it, 
that nothing hurts them. They are as hard as 
the bricks themselves. 

Gent. — Does not the soot make your eyes sore ? 

Chim. S. — No, sir; some of the boys have sore 
eyes, but I never have. 

Gent. — Do you get enough to eat ? 

Chim. S. — Yes, sir, always. 

Gent. — Are you happy? 

Chim. S. — Yes, sir, I am always happy. 

What a subject for a skilful moralist, and more 
especially when the contrast is taken into consi- 



81 

deration ! For myself, I feel that I am quite un- 
equal to do it justice. There is, however, one 
circumstance about it so very striking, that I should 
like to draw the attention of the reader particularly 
to it, — I mean the callous state which the poor 
knees and elbows at length acquire, and the compa- 
rative indifference with which at last they bear 
the hardest rubs of severest injuries. Alas ! how 
much does this resemble the state of mind which 
the constant application of harsh and severe treat- 
ment will at last produce. And how do we thus, from 
constant friction, and continual attacks upon our 
feelings, learn to bear, without shrinking, such trials 
as we should previously have supposed it impossible 
to endure, and live ! Such is the wise and merciful 
ordination of a good Providence, that evils of all 
kinds seem to have their appointed and attendant 
remedy, even before we are relieved by the great 
remedy of all ! Let us trust, with humble, confiding 
faith, that it ever will be so ! 



82 



ON THE DIFFERENT EFFECTS OF DIFFERENT 
STATES OF LIFE. 



Different circumstances and situations in life 
have their natural tendency to occasion different 
defects. It should be our business to consider the 
nature of those to which we are ourselves peculiarly 
exposed, and endeavour to avoid them. The in- 
quiry will be found interesting as well as useful ; 
and indeed it is hardly possible for the mind to be 
employed in sincere and candid endeavours to inves- 
tigate the truth, without improvement, both moral 
and intellectual. Those who are living in the midst 
of a busy, bustling world, continually surrounded 
by society, with a constant succession of events 
crowding upon them, will in general find that, unless 
some event occurs of importance to their own 
interest, stimulating to their own passions and feel- 
ings, or of a peculiarly exciting nature, it will 
usually pass away with little notice, and be thought 
of no more. Its cause will seldom be inquired into ; 



83 

its effects will be in general unnoticed ; and thus, 
though leading a busy and an active life, it is very- 
possible to gain but little by experience. Often 
shall we find the truth of a remark I knew to be 
once made by a celebrated man,* — that he continu- 
ally found persons who said what, but that very 
few indeed said why. 

Then, on the other hand, to those who are living 
in retirement and seclusion, the most trifling event 
that may occur is often found to assume undue 
importance ; the slightest deviation from the usual 
monotony of existence is anxiously inquired into ; 
the minutest details of common-place occurrences 
are eagerly listened to, and carefully treasured up, 
"Our Village "f becoming the whole world to us; 
and thus we naturally learn to attach too much 
consequence to ourselves and our own immediate 
concerns. It is also very likely, that under such 
circumstances we may be inclined to inquire too 

* John Hunter. 
f A little work of great merit, by Miss Mitford. 



84 

minutely into the details of others' conduct ; some- 
times unfairly imagine that they are actuated by 
unworthy motives ; even perhaps impute to them 
designs upon ourselves, of which they never had 
even the most remote intentions. 

Perhaps there are few persons far advanced in 
life who have not occasionally been placed in these 
different situations, and who have not in some 
degree experienced the evils belonging to both. If 
properly considered, however, both will be found 
also to present opportunities of improvement. To 
those who are engaged in the busy scenes of life, 
it will be necessary sometimes to retire from its 
pleasures, and even from its active duties, to reflect 
calmly and deliberately over their own conduct ; 
to consider, coolly and dispassionately, the variety 
of events in which they are perhaps but too deeply 
interested, to acknowledge the truth fairly and 
honestly to their own hearts ; and to find some 
leisure to commune in their own chamber, and be 
still.. When placed in a situation of quiet seclusion, 
the leisure thus afforded may be advantageously 



85 

employed in a strict and deliberate investigation 
of our own conduct, instead of sitting in judgment 
upon the affairs of others, in earnest endeavours 
to observe, with a spirit of humility and candour, 
the wonderful effects frequently arising from events 
that might appear to us the most insignificant and 
trifling ; and so to prove the infinite importance of 
acting from a sense of duty in every act of our lives. 
Thus shall we trace, not only the wisdom, but the 
mercy and goodness of our Maker, in the whole 
moral government of the world, which He has 
formed. Thus shall we learn to trust, with holy 
hope and humble resignation, to His decrees, and 
feel assured that, even when He may appear to hide 
His face for a moment, all things still continue 
to work together for good to them that love God. 



More traits of her beautiful mind might have 
been produced, from the recollections of different 
relatives, especially of her daughter-in-law, Hen- 
rietta Baillie, who nursed her with unremitting 



86 

care and tenderness during different stages of her 
illness, particularly the last, when she was con- 
stantly a watcher in or near her sick chamber, to 
see that every thing was done which could be done 
for her relief. But enough has been said to awaken 
affectionate recollections in the friendly readers into 
whose hands this little book will be put; and it 
is meet for me to consider that a writer, with the 
weight of more than fourscore years upon her head, 
is liable to weaken the effect of her subject by being 
too diffuse. 



THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 386 007 3 



